


Armor

by Thanatopsiturvy



Series: In Search of Nine Lives [5]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Azarahd the Khajiit, Bath Sex, Bathing/Washing, Blacksmithing, Breaking stereotypes, Fantastical Racism, M/M, Markarth, Markarth is the worst, Orcs are sexy, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Sex Addiction, Slow Burn, realistic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 05:11:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18653587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thanatopsiturvy/pseuds/Thanatopsiturvy
Summary: Azarahd decides that he needs new armor. Luckily, there's a particularly talented blacksmith nearby in Markarth.





	Armor

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I took a bit of a break from my long, multi-chapter work to write this sexy/smutty/sweet little one-shot. This is another installment in the series following my Khajiit dragonborn, Azarahd, around Skyrim as he attempted to fuck his problems away.  
> It got a little more real than I first intended, but that's how these stories tend to go for me. Azarahd is just here to have a good time, but I'm determined to make him _feel things._ Also, all of these so far are meant to be read as stand-alones, so jump right in! 
> 
> HUGE shoutout to [spiney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiney/pseuds/spiney), who beta'd this story for me and honestly just went above and beyond. I feel like I became a better writer through the process and am just so incredibly grateful for all the work they put in. 
> 
>  
> 
> **CW: Mentions of injury during sex, blood, unreconciled sex addiction.**

 

Markarth always smelled like moss and wet stone – the humidity of a summer riverbed and the earthiness of a cave. The constant flow of water running through the city left Azarahd feeling perpetually damp, his fur flattening slickly around his neck and temples, dewdrops stubbornly sticking to the ends of his whiskers no matter how much he tried to shake them off. He wandered aimlessly through the streets, his mind buzzing with thoughts of Alduin, the Blades, and the end of the known world. He hadn’t exactly ‘fled’ Skyhaven temple. He had just... left quickly. Delphine’s and Esbern’s voices still echoed through his mind. The time to confront Alduin was nearing, and of all the possible ways to panic, Azarahd could only think of one thing on repeat: _I need new armor_.    

 

The bright, metallic clang of steel hitting steel echoed off the stone buildings, drawing Azarahd towards the source of the sound – the Markarth blacksmith’s workshop.

“Tacitus, what is this?” a stern voice demanded.

“Uh, a nail?” came the unsure reply.

“Is that what you call it? In the Legion we would have called it ‘ _useless._ ’ Look how brittle the metal is!”

“I… I’m sorry. I just, well, the forge gets so hot and I thought…”  

“You thought what? You would skip a step? Not heat the metal all the way through? Useless! Now do it again!”

 

Azarahd rounded the corner to see a sullen-looking Imperial man turning back to the forge, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm. The woman whose voice he’d also heard was a rather dour-looking orc who promptly returned to her hammering.

“What do you want?” she nearly growled as Azarahd approached.

“I’m looking to commission new armor, preferably ebony. I have plenty of coin.” He tapped the purse tied to his waist.

“I’m sure you do,” she grunted, not pausing in her work. “But I don’t work with ebony, and I have my hands full with requests right now. You should talk to my brother, Moth. He _may_ take pity on you.”

“I appreciate the suggestion.” Azarahd glanced around, seeing only the orc and the Imperial. “And where might I find this brother of yours?”

“He’s probably lazing around up in his quarters in Understone Keep. Try there.” She still continued her hammering, voice loud and gruff over the sharp metallic staccato.

The Khajiit offered a polite bow. “Thank you, again.”

“Just get out of here,” she dismissed without looking up.  

 

Azarahd made a swift retreat, bounding up the stone steps towards the Keep. The evening was rolling in, casting the city in a warm, golden glow of late-day sun.

“Hands to yourself, sneak thief,” a guard called out as Azarahd pushed through the main doors, causing him to bristle internally, but otherwise he ignored the man. He hadn’t _intended_ on stealing anything, but now he was considering it, purely out of spite. It was dark and quiet inside, the light of the few torches swallowed up by the immense shadows and deep crevices of the old Dwemer halls. A constant mist drifted listlessly between felled boulders and crumbling pillars. Azarahd made his way past the second set of guards, keeping his head down and his hood up. His tail always gave him away, though.

 

“Halt!” one called out. “State your business with the Jarl.” Azarahd tried not to audibly sigh.

“I do not have business with the Jarl. I’m looking for someone named Moth?”

“That would be the Jarl’s personal blacksmith,” the guard supplied. _Of course it would_. “What business would a Khajiit have with him?”

“I was sent by his sister,” Azarahd replied, tail swishing impatiently.

“Hmm… fine. Straight up the stairs and to the right. He should be in his quarters.”

“Thank you, kindly.” He smiled thinly, devoid of kindness.

 

All Azarahd had to do was follow the sound of hammering. He strolled unhurriedly up the long stretch of stone steps and veered to the right, spotting the room the guard must have been referring to. He entered the blacksmith’s quarters, immediately overwhelmed by the heat of the forge that sat in the center of the room. An orc, who he assumed was Moth, was busy hammering away at a piece of hot steel, his back turned to Azarahd.

 

“Hello,” Azarahd began, his gaze shamelessly trailing to the mer’s ass. “I was sent to you by your charming sister.”

Moth chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. He hit what looked to be the beginnings of a steel sword a few more times before dunking it in his water trough and turning around. His eyebrows shot up when his gaze landed on Azarahd. “Not too often I see a Khajiit in Markarth. What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for new armor, preferably ebony. I was told you were the one to speak to,” Azarahd explained, silently appraising the orc’s well-muscled arms and strong features. A handsome orc was always a delight.

“Ebony isn’t exactly easy to come by, or to work with. I assume you have the coin it’ll take?” Moth crossed his arms, showing off his large muscles even more. Between the heat of the room and the stunning apex of masculinity before him, Azarahd felt like he needed a dunk in the river.

“Yes, of course. And if I don’t have enough with me, I can send a courier to my housecarl in Whiterun.”

“Housecarl? In Whiterun?” Moth looked impressed and confused. “Who are you?”

“My name is Azarahd,” Ahz offered bluntly.

“And mine is Moth gro-Bagol,” the orc laughed. “But _who_ are you? I fought with the Legion. I know Skyrim isn’t kind to your people. How does a Khajiit end up with a housecarl in Whiterun?”  

 

Azarahd remained silent for a moment, sighing loudly before running a hand nervously over his ears.

“I am… the… I’m the Dragonborn,” he finally managed. The Orsimer’s eyebrows shot up once again, eyes widening into an expression akin to awe.

“Dragonborn,” Moth repeated. “I’d heard rumor that the Dragonborn was Khajiit… but, to be honest, I thought it was just made up to piss off the Stormcloaks.”

“That is an added benefit,” Ahz grinned, earning a chuckle.

“Well I’d be honored to make a set of armor for the Dragonborn. I’m just caught up in my current project. I need a daedra heart to finish it up. The Jarl wants me to cool his new sword in blood.” It was Azarahd’s turn to raise his eyebrows.

“That’s quite dramatic,” he said, hoping it wasn’t out of line. Moth chuckled, but didn’t disagree.

“What if I could get you a Daedra heart?” Azarahd offered as Moth began to turn away.

“That would be impressive, and I’d certainly be able to get to work on your armor faster.”

 

Wordlessly, Azarahd dropped the pack from his shoulder and rifled through it for his apothecary satchel, silently praising Nocturnal for her endless and gracious gift of luck. He pulled out a palm-sized object wrapped in darkly stained linen. Slowly unraveling the cloth, he presented Moth with a relatively fresh Daedra heart.

“You… are full of surprises,” the orc marveled, taking the heart out of Azarahd’s extended palm. “And I believe I owe you some ebony armor.” Azarahd smiled toothily.

“Is there anything else you might be needing?” he offered, praying to Dibella for the possibility of sexual favors. Moth looked thoughtful for a moment.

“Well, I could always use some help at the forge, if you’re any good at smithing. Mostly smelting and keeping the fire hot.”

“I’m surprisingly good at keeping things hot,” Ahz joked, shifting to a more casual stance.

“Good,” Moth nodded, either ignoring the sexual innuendo or oblivious to it. “I’ll spend the rest of today finishing up the Jarl’s sword, but if you’d like to meet me here first thing tomorrow morning we can get started on your armor.”  

“I shall be here at sun up,” Azarahd said, beaming at the orc before taking his leave.

 

\---

 

The forge was _hot_ , even for someone who had grown up in the desert. Azarahd panted heavily, desperately trying to cool himself down as he rhythmically pumped the bellows. He had abandoned his Nightingale armor hours earlier in favor of a breathable linen tunic. Moth was steadily hammering away at the ebony ingots, slowly flattening them to form the plates.

“You’re a bit taller and broader than most humans and elves I’ve made armor for,” he explained. “So I’m using an orc pattern. It may look a little different than your usual ebony armor, but I think you’ll find it will fit you better. I’d also like to shape your helmet to accommodate your ears.”

“That would be a tremendous relief,” Azarahd sighed, stepping away from the bellows to catch his breath.

“Here, grab a hammer and help me for a bit. You’ve done an excellent job at the forge.”

 

Moth gave out compliments easily, something that Azarahd was unused to. It made him feel good, useful. He felt like he was actually learning. They took turns striking the hot ebony, hitting twice as fast than Moth could have alone. Azarahd watched the muscles in Moth’s forearm flex and ripple each time he brought the hammer down, his mind wandering to obscene places. Soon enough, they had a neat set of plates, ready to be shaped and pieced together. Moth gave Azarahd the task of flattening the smallest plates that would form the gauntlets, while the orc began the steady work of raising the helmet.

“Are your ears that long or is that just fur on the ends there?” he asked, pausing in his hammering. The Khajiit set his own hammer down, stretching out his fingers.

“It is just fur. They are quite normal in size.”

“May I?” Moth asked, stepping forward, one hand outstretched. Azarahd’s ears flattened instinctively, giving the orc pause.

“As long as that isn’t… inappropriate,” he added, lowering his hand.

“No, no, sorry. It’s not a problem. Purely reflexive,” Azarahd said, stepping forward and bending his head. In truth, his ears were _quite_ sensitive. Moth’s large, calloused hands ran them over from base to tip, measuring with his fingers how far they protruded from Ahz’s head.

“Hmm, yes I think I can work with this. I still want them to be protected, but we can at least make it so you can hear when you’re wearing it,” he mumbled, half to himself. Azarahd had to repress a shiver at the gruff touch, now thoroughly determined to get this gorgeous orc into his bed. He returned to his hammering, a sly smile on his lips.

 

A deep, thickly-accented voice came from the doorway. “How’s the forge today?”

“Thongvor, welcome. It’s fine. Much better than the rickety tools I had in the Legion.” Moth turned to clasp arms with the man who had just entered the room. He was tall, with broad shoulders, a typical Nord despite the lack of hair on his head. Azarahd continued to hammer away at one of the anvils; Thongvor took note of him immediately.

“Who’s the Khajiit? An apprentice?” Thongvor asked, as if Ahz weren’t in the room.

“Not at all. This is my new friend, Azarahd. He helped me finish up that sword the Jarl had wanted cooled in Daedra blood. Azarahd,” he called out, beckoning the Khajiit over. “This is my good friend Thongvor Silver-Blood.”

“Any relation to the Inn of the same name?” Ahz asked, setting down his hammer and walking over to extend his hand in greeting. Thongvor looked at him with suspicion, if not distaste, before firmly, almost too firmly, grasping his hand for a shake.   
“Yes. Markarth owes a lot to my family.” He seemed to straighten with pride. “We own the Inn, the Treasury House, and Cidhna Mine, the most secure prison in all of Skyrim. Best you remember that if you feel your hands wandering towards any valuables in this city.”

“Thongvor,” Moth growled in warning. “You should speak with more respect. You stand before the Dragonborn of our age.” Azarahd sighed internally, biting the inside of his cheeks, keeping his expression schooled into a cool mask of indifference. Thongvor let out a long, bellowing laugh that turned into a wheeze.

“Is that what he told you? And you believed him? My friend, you have too soft a heart for an orc.”

“I believe I shall return to the bellows now. The fire needs stoking,” Azarahd said, grinding out his words through clenched teeth, turning swiftly away from the pair. He caught the apologetic look Moth gave him before the orc turned back to Thongvor.

“You let your prejudices control your better judgment,” Moth rumbled in admonition, his friend still laughing at his expense.

 

The pair of retired legionnaires nearly jumped out of their skin as a thunderous shout of _YOL_ and a massive wave of heat erupted from where Azarahd stood. The forge lit up brightly and Azarahd pumped furiously at the bellows, pointedly ignoring the two figures behind him.

“Talos help me…” Thongvor murmured before saying something to Moth too low for Azarahd to hear. The orc ushered his friend out of the room, leaving Ahz alone for a few blissful moments. He grabbed one of the elongated ingots of ebony and began to hammer, if only to give himself something to hit. Moth returned after a few moments.

 

“Please, forgive Thongvor. He is a good man. Nords are a stubborn and proud people,” he offered, moving closer to where Azarahd still hammered away.

“It is nothing I am not incredibly used to,” he said, pausing in his striking, keeping his tone level, voice showing more calm than he felt. “However, I should not have lost my temper. It is… unbecoming of the Dragonborn.” He nearly sneered. Moth made a noncommittal sound, shrugging and crossing his arms.   
“I can’t say I blame you. But it was quite impressive,” he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “Moreover, I convinced Thongvor to allow you free room and board at the Silver-Blood Inn, as a formal apology and to show that Markarth respects your title.” Azarahd turned to face him fully, putting the now somewhat flatter ebony ingot back into the forge to heat.

“Really? He agreed to that?”

 

It _would_ be nice to stay in an Inn. He had been content to sleep another night outside the city walls in his bedroll, but to have the protection and comfort of an inn was always a welcome alternative.

“I can be very convincing,” Moth replied with a smug grin. Briefly, Azarahd wondered if the two men were lovers, but his gut told him that most likely wasn’t the case.

“Well, you have my gratitude.” He smiled warmly. “If I may, would you care to join me at the Inn for a drink once we have completed our work here? My treat. As a thanks,” he added. Moth blinked at him for a moment, his expression halfway between surprise and something Ahz couldn’t quite place.

“I… don’t see why not,” he said after a long pause, uncrossing his arms.

“Wonderful.” Ahz grinned, hopefully not too ferally. “We should get back to work then.”

 

\---

 

The Silver-Blood Inn was about as friendly to Ahz as the rest of Markarth had been. Once Moth arrived, however, he found the glares and suspicious glances abated significantly. The orc had taken the time to clean up a bit, which gave Azarahd a glimmer of hope that he may actually have a chance at bedding the mer. They clasped forearms affably as Moth moved to sit across from him at one of the metal Dwemer tables.

 

“What is your preferred drink, my friend?” Ahz asked. He had already purchased two bottles of ale, but was willing to fetch Moth whatever he wanted.

“The ale is fine, thanks,” Moth rumbled, reaching for the bottle that had been placed at his spot. They clinked the necks of their bottles together in amicable silence before both taking long pulls.

“So tell me, Azarahd,” Moth began, leaning back in his chair casually. “Dragonborn aside, how exactly did you end up in Skyrim?”

Ahz paused thoughtfully, chewing his lower lip as he contemplated the best way to go about the story.  “Well… I thought I’d try to start over with my life. I knew someone who was part of the traveling caravans here and was aiming to meet up with him and… essentially beg to join them.”

“You speak Common far better than any Khajiit I’ve met. Did you learn it before coming to Skyrim?”

“Eh, yes, I did. I was fortunate to have a strict teacher in Elsweyr. She drilled my brother and I relentlessly in Common,” Azarahd chuckled.

“And is your brother also here?” Moth’s questions were innocent, but the stabbing pain of unpleasant memories must have shown on his face.

“He is not. I do not know where he is… nor to I wish to. He left to train with the Aldmeri Dominion as soon as he came of age.” This distaste in Azarahd’s voice was overt.

“Hmm…” Moth nodded in understanding. “Not a fan of the Dominion then?” He took another swig of his ale and Azarahd watched his throat bob beneath the thick black stubble on his neck.

 

“That is one commonality I share with the Nords,” he scoffed. “Possibly the only one. I don’t trust the Thalmor any more than a sheep should trust a wolf. Their intentions are sinister. They promise one thing and deliver another, offering a hand in peace while the other holds a knife behind their back. The Empire is made up of fools if they think the White-Gold Concordat will protect them from whatever else the Dominion may have in store.” Moth looked surprised at this.

“You may have more in common with Thongvor than he thinks… So you wouldn’t join the Empire to end this civil war? I know they’d quite literally kill to have the Dragonborn on their side. Then again, so would the Stormcloaks. Though I don’t know how well they’d handle fighting alongside a Khajiit.”

“Precisely the predicament I find myself in.” Azarahd smiled bitterly, taking a long drink of ale. “I am an outcast no matter where I turn, and no matter whom I help.” He laughed bitterly. “And the worst of it is that I truly love Skyrim. Despite it all.”

 

Moth was staring at him with a look that make Azarahd shift nervously – it was somewhere between compassion, pity, and admiration. He sat his bottle down, having finished his ale while Ahz was talking.

“Well, perhaps you are here to do more than just slay dragons,” he offered enigmatically, a far weightier statement than Azarahd was willing to unpack in that particular moment. “May I get you another ale?”

Azarahd smirked. “I’m the one that is supposed to be buying drinks.”

“You can get the next round, then,” Moth said, smiling back easily as he rose from his seat and approached the bar.

 

Their conversation was lighter after that, sticking to familiar topics. Azarahd found Moth nearly effortless to talk to. The mer spoke thoughtfully, his tone measured and gentle. His voice was low and soothing, his laugh deliciously deep and resonant, filling the room boldly and without shame. They talked well into their third bottle of ale, and Azarahd felt himself desiring the mer’s company beyond the promise of mere physical pleasure. That still didn’t stop him when the time came for Moth to head home.

 

“It’s late, and there is still a good day’s worth of work to be done on your armor,” Moth said, draining the last of his ale before getting to his feet.

Azarahd lowered his voice. “You’re welcome to stay in my quarters if you find you don’t wish to climb all those steps.” He left no room for interpretation in his tone. He looked up at Moth expectantly, his own ale bottle held at his lips. The orc’s eyes went wide as he took a stuttering step away from the table. Azarahd regretted his offer instantly, but said nothing.

“I…” Moth cleared his throat, his neck flushing a deep shade of green. “I think I’ll be fine. But thank you,” he said quickly. “Sleep well. See you on the morrow.”

“You as well, Moth,” Azarahd nodded curtly, finishing off his ale as an excuse to break eye contact.

 

After Moth exited the Inn, Ahz let his forehead fall onto the table in front of him with a soft thump, growling at himself. He stayed like that for a few moments before rising to his feet, grabbing the empty bottles, and taking them over to the bar. The barkeep was mildly surprised and vocally thankful for the help. Azarahd nodded silently before shuffling off to his room for the night. He felt like he had ruined a good thing – all because his dick was too damn greedy. The stone beds of the Inn were difficult to sleep on, so he ended up pulling out his bedroll anyway, curling into the fur-lined blankets and feeling very much like a child. He sighed heavily, using a quick spell to extinguish the torches in the room before falling into a fitful sleep.

 

\---    

 

Azarahd poured himself into his work the next day, hammering twice as hard and even resorting to using his magicka to keep the forge extra hot. Moth was conspicuously quiet for most of the morning, but had apparently had enough of Azarahd’s sullenness by the time their lunch break rolled around.

“We should talk,” he said, and it was more of a demand than a suggestion. Azarahd’s ears flattened slightly at his tone, but he nodded.

“I should apologize for last night,” he began before Moth could speak. “It was inappropriate of me to suggest such things…”

Moth raised a hand to cut him off. “I accept your apology, but that’s not what I was looking for. Come, let’s go to the kitchens and have some food.”

 

They walked silently across Understone Keep. Azarahd glanced down the stairs and accidentally caught Thongvor’s eye as he leaned against the wall of the entryway tunnel. The Nord nodded at him in simple recognition before averting his gaze. The kitchen was not as hot as the forge, but still quite warm compared to the rest of the keep. Moth greeted the cooks amicably before grabbing two bowls and ladling a thick, beefy stew into each for the two of them. He motioned with his head for Azarahd to follow him to a small, rickety wooden table in the corner. Ahz sat down with a heaving sigh, dreading the conversation ahead of him. His plan to apologize and move on hadn’t worked, and he was out of ideas as to how he might salvage this friendship.

 

“Please, eat.” Moth gestured with his spoon towards Azarahd’s bowl. In all honesty, the Khajiit didn’t have much of an appetite, but he ate a few bites anyway.

“You know, many people, humans and elves alike, consider the Orsimer to be beastfolk and not descendants of mer,” Moth began, somewhat out of nowhere. Azarahd blinked dumbly at him, unsure of what to say.

“I don’t fault anyone for this assumption, nor does it bother me. Our culture is very much a mystery to anyone who is not Blood-Kin. We prefer it that way.” He paused to eat some of his stew. Azarahd still remained silent, uncertain as to where this conversation was going or what he could possibly add to it.

“What I’m getting at is, there are certain… _cultural_ differences that a lot of people are unaware of when it comes to my race.”

Realization dawned on the Khajiit. “If I overstepped or offended you in any way…”

Once again, Moth raised his hand to silence him. “I have not lived among my people for over a decade. But there are many things that I still have difficulty adapting to, especially in Skyrim. Treating physical intimacy so casually is one of them.” He must have seen Azarahd visibly recoil, because he hurriedly added, “That’s not to say that I judge those who partake in such things! Or… that I’m… averse to the… prospect.” The sheer force the orc seemed to need to get the second half of that sentence out almost had Azarahd laughing. Almost.

“Ah…” Ahz said at last. “I forget myself sometimes. We are very open about these things in Elsweyr. We even make the Nords look prudish.” He smirked. “But I am happy to hear I did not ruin our friendship and that you are… open-minded on the subject.” Moth’s neck and cheeks began to noticeably flush, which brought Azarahd great joy. The power dynamic had shifted – he felt in control again.

Moth cleared his throat. “Well, I just wanted to make sure we understood each other,” he rumbled, turning to his food and voraciously finishing off the stew. Azarahd ate somewhat slower, a mischievous smile playing across his lips.

 

The rest of the day had a new kind of tension to it. Azarahd continued to work diligently, but noticed that Moth’s gaze seemed to find his more and more often. The orc, of course, always jerked his head away whenever he was noticed, doubling down on his work. Finally, after the sun had long set, the armor was nearly done. Moth clasped the breastplate into place, tightening the straps and taking note of any alterations that needed to be made.

“There’s still quite a few things that need adjusting…” he murmured more to himself, standing wonderfully close to Azarahd. “But I can easily finish up the small details in the morning.”

“You’ve done truly marvelous work, Moth. Thank you.” Azarahd smiled, truly genuine. “I’ve never had armor that fit me so well.” Moth’s neck flushed and he averted his gaze, taking a few steps back.

“The Dragonborn deserves more than I could give,” he rumbled. Azarahd laughed, honestly amused at the mer’s humility. He began to remove the bracers, setting them down on the workbench.

“You’ve done more for me than many people in Skyrim have. So thank you. Truly.”

 

A long beat of silence passed between them as Azarahd unstrapped the armor.

“So,” Azarahd began, letting the chestplate slide down his body. “Would you like to get another drink with me?”

Moth puffed up his chest, looking vaguely determined. “I would like that.”

 

\---

 

Moth made the most delicious noises - deep, guttural growls and hot huffs, low hisses and baritone encouragements. Azarahd let his eyelids slide closed as he took the orc’s thick length as deep into his throat as he could, squeezing his own cock tightly at the base, edging himself. Moth had a large, insistent hand on the back of his head, holding him in place for a moment before releasing. Azarahd pulled back with a gasp, panting raggedly and opening his eyes to gaze up at the mer above him.

 

“I want you to fuck me,” Ahz confessed breathlessly, still on his knees. Moth nodded silently, pulling absentmindedly on one of Azarahd’s ears, making the Khajiit lean into the touch and purr deeply. He used Moth’s hips to steady himself as he got to his feet, taking the opportunity to lean in and capture the mer’s mouth, enjoying the way those two tusks pressed into his jaw and how their cocks made brief, delightful contact. Where Azarahd had hoped for dominance and power, however, Moth only seemed to offer tenderness. He bit at Moth’s lips impatiently, earning a growl, but aside from Moth’s hands tightening around Azarahd’s hips, the orc continued to move and explore and knead at his maddeningly slow pace.

 

Azarahd was fairly confident, however, that once he was face down and bent across that stony, sorry excuse for a bed, Moth’s more primal instincts would take over. He broke away, pulling Moth in that direction, stooping to retrieve the oil from his discarded pack and placing it in Moth’s hand.

“I take it you know what to do with this?” he asked with a sly smile. Moth nodded somewhat distractedly, leaning in once more and kissing Azarahd far too gently for his liking. The Khajiit broke away, flipping around and pulling his tail up over one of his shoulders as he leaned forward onto the bed, putting on a show.

 

“Wait,” Moth rumbled. “I want to see you.”

“You… want to see me?” Ahz looked tentatively over his shoulder, not quite understanding what the mer meant.

“Turn around,” Moth almost asked, though it was still a command. Azarahd’s ears flattened in frustration, but he did what was requested of him. The heat of the orc’s gaze matched that of his forge, and Azarahd’s skin suddenly felt too small. He couldn’t help the stuttering gasp that left his lips as he felt a thick finger swirl against his entrance, slick with oil.

“Is that good?” Moth purred, knowing full well it was good. Azarahd nodded, letting his head fall back against the stone, stretching his arms up over his head and arching his back seductively. He could still coax the animal out of this orc yet, no matter the angle.

 

Moth lifted one of Ahz’s long legs to rest against his shoulder, that teasing finger now pressing firmly into him, opening him up. It had been a while since Azarahd had been on the receiving end of things. He usually liked to save that act for men or women who were even more dominant than himself. But as Moth gently worked a second, thick finger inside of him, placing firm kisses against the inside of his ankle, he was beginning to realize that he’d completely misjudged the promise of dominance from this particular orc.

“I’m not going to break,” he panted, rolling his hips against Moth’s fingers. “You can go faster.”

“Hmm…” Moth pressed in up to his knuckles before pulling out slowly and repeating the process. “I’m rather enjoying this, though.” Azarahd huffed in annoyance, gazing up at the ceiling. He’d begun to go slightly soft and was starting to regret asking the mer to bed. Then, Moth curled his fingers just right, stirring a tight groan out of Azarahd’s chest as his abdominals contracted automatically. His cock twitched back to life.

 

Moth removed his fingers and replaced them with the blunt, slick head of his cock, still alarmingly big despite the preparations. Azarahd bit the inside of his cheek in anticipation.

“Let me know if I hurt you,” Moth murmured.

“You won’t,” Azarahd insisted, pushing against the orc ever so slightly.

Moth chuckled. “You’re very eager.”

“Do you blame me?” Ahz asked with an almost hysterical laugh.

Moth didn’t say whether he blamed him or not, but instead pushed diligently forward, sinking fully into Azarahd. The Khajiit let out a long, satisfied groan, throwing his head back in relief. The orc was huge inside him, a dull, throbbing club of a cock. Azarahd couldn’t help the blissed out smile that stretched across his face, teeth slightly bared.

“Fuck me, please,” he urged. Moth complied, pulling out and firmly pressing his hips forward, pushing a grunt and a satisfied, delirious laugh out of Azarahd.

“Yes…hnng…” He grunted involuntarily again as Moth began to pick up the pace. His own cock was back to full mast, slapping lightly against his stomach in time with the orc’s thrusts.

 

He was making noises, he knew this, but at some point he’d lost control of his vocal chords. He was panting and shouting raggedly with each piston of Moth’s hips. The mer’s cock was unyielding and insistent. The deep, jagged pleasure that was spiking through his body was unlike anything he’d felt in months, maybe longer. Moth was beginning to quicken his pace even more, grabbing Azarahd’s left leg to join the right on his shoulders. He leaned forward, pressing Ahz’s thighs to his chest, and the Khajiit nearly screamed at the change of angle.

“Gods… _jat_ … _afa_!” he cried, derailing into Ta’agra gibberish as he grabbed onto the back of Moth’s neck, digging his claws in. Moth let out a sound akin to a snarl, and that’s when something gave way.

 

It was all Azarahd could do to hold on as he was fucked across the hard, stone bed beneath him. Moth slammed into him, his power unrelenting and raw. His eyes had turned nearly solid black. Ahz was laughing between his cries of pleasure, the savagery of the sensation getting him higher than any bottle of skooma ever could. He let his tongue loll out of his mouth a bit as he smiled, grabbing fistfuls of Moth’s coarse black hair. The orc was breathing hot and heavy onto the side of his face, grunting lowly each time their hips connected. He bit down on Azarahd’s neck, _hard_ , and that was all it took. Ahz shouted hoarsely as he came, his voice cracking and falling into a soft, droning moan as Moth continued to drill into him. Azarahd let his arms fall out to the side, body almost completely limp. Moth straightened up, pumping into Azarahd, two, three, four more times before he let out a series of bellows and slowed to a steady rhythm, milking himself to completion.

 

The orc fell forward again, bracing himself on his forearms on either side of Azarahd’s head. Their breathing was incredibly loud in the now silent room. Moth pulled out slowly, which Azarahd was quite thankful for. Now that the high was wearing off, he knew he’d be incredibly sore in the morning, though he was finding it hard to care.

“I lost my control.” Moth sighed regretfully. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, please.” Azarahd laughed breathlessly. “I like it rough.”

Moth didn’t look convinced. His eyes were back to normal and full of concern. “You’re bleeding, though,” he pointed out.

Ahz paused, looking away as he shrugged. “It happens.”

“This is why I don’t do this…” Moth grumbled, walking to the water basin in the room and dampening a cloth.

Ahz sat up with some effort, a dull throbbing in his backside. “Please, there’s no need for you to be feeling guilty,” he insisted, somewhat frustrated. He was coming down from his high faster than he would have preferred. Moth walked back over and handed Azarahd the damp cloth. He took it somewhat forcefully and cleaned himself up, grimacing at the sting and looking down at the cloth distastefully. There was, indeed, quite a bit of blood.

 

But he had enjoyed it, _thoroughly_ , and he disliked having this particularly feral side of himself scrutinized so quickly after a good fuck. He roughly wiped off his chest with the somewhat clean side of the rag and then threw it into a corner, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed. He still felt sticky and grimy, but was more concerned with wiping that pitiful look off Moth’s face than getting any cleaner.

 

“There are baths up in Understone Keep,” Moth said, almost reading Azarahd’s mind. “They’re usually reserved for residents, but I could get you into one.”

Ahz chuckled wearily. “As nice as that sounds, I don’t know if I’m up for climbing all those stairs.”

“I can carry you,” Moth offered genuinely, making Azarahd’s fur bristle.    

“Absolutely not,” he said, probably harsher than he should have. Moth turned away sheepishly, beginning to dress. This… was terrible. Azarahd scrubbed his hands over his face.

“A bath…” he began with a sigh. “A bath would be very nice.”

 

-

 

After laboriously getting dressed and walking all the way back up to Understone Keep, Azarahd was cranky, tired, and sore, but Moth seemed determined. The bath was deserted, though the air was still warm and wet. Several imposing stone tubs lined the walls, all with their own faucets. Azarahd marveled silently at the Dwemer technology as Moth began to turn one of the large valves that started the water flow. Hot water gushed out of a massive pipe, splashing loudly into the empty tub, beginning to fill the room with steam.

“It should be full in just a few minutes,” Moth said, walking across the room to a set of shelves where neatly folded towels and bottles of various oils and soaps sat. Azarahd felt incredibly outclassed by the whole place.

 

“Are you sure I’m allowed to be in here?” he asked, glancing back at the door.

Moth grunted, crossing to the tub with two towels and a well-used bar of soap. “You’re my guest,” he affirmed, though that wasn’t exactly a ‘yes’. Ahz sighed, trying to will himself to be less anxious. Moth had set down the various accoutrements by the tub and motioned Azarahd towards him. The Khajiit hesitated, but his feet moved of their own accord. Moth reached out gently, tugging the bottom of Ahz’s shirt upwards and over his head. His fur was matted, and much dirtier than he had previously realized. Moth ran a large hand across his chest, almost curiously, tracing the swell of his muscles and smoothing down little patches of cowlicked fur. The gesture prompted a wolfish grin from Azarahd.

 

“I’ve been told I’m handsome for a Khajiit,” he offered, sliding back into his usual flirtations.

Moth huffed in amusement. “It doesn’t have to be ‘for a Khajiit’. Just handsome will do.”

“I take it you’ve gotten similar observations?” Azarahd pressed, remembering one of Thongvor’s comments from the day before. Moth shrugged, beginning to undo Ahz’s pants, and the action was so incredibly non-sexual that Ahz had a hard time wrapping his head around it. He stared dumbly at Moth’s thick fingers as they meticulously unfastened the buttons.

“Handsome for an orc… soft-spoken for an orc… generous for an orc… I’ve heard it all. I won’t say I go through nearly as much in this country as the Khajiit, but if I’m tired of it I can’t imagine what you must deal with.” He pulled Ahz’s pants down and held them for the Khajiit to step out of, tossing them to the side before pulling his own shirt off.

 

Azarahd watched Moth turn to the bath to check the water level, admiring the way the mer’s muscles rippled beneath his skin. “I try to ignore it,” he said, crossing his arms. “There are enough people in this country who treat me fairly to make it worth my while.” Moth grunted noncommittally, removing his pants.

Ahz couldn’t help but rake his eyes over the orc’s body once again; his dick hung thick and soft between his legs, swaying slightly as he shifted from one foot to the other. There was a part of Ahz that wished he could just be casually naked, but despite the soreness and the awkwardness of it all, his cock was still swelling with interest at the sight of Moth, especially as he grabbed the valve, throwing his weight into it to turn the water off.

 

“Here.” Moth turned around and extended a hand to Azarahd, who took it tentatively. Moth helped him step up and into the enormous basin. The water was hotter than Ahz was expecting, and he hissed and withdrew his foot, then carefully slid it back in. Gods, it has been months, possibly _years_ , since he’d had a hot bath. Khajiit, in general, only rarely submerged themselves to bathe, perhaps once a month at most, but Azarahd did enjoy the ritual of it quite a bit. The closest thing he could remember to a hot bath in Skyrim was stealing away with Brynjolf one evening to the natural hot springs north of Riften. Now _that_ was a fine memory.

 

He sank into the water up to his shoulders, groaning as the heat enveloped him, his fur floating weightlessly around him. He winced at the sting of pain, tentatively reaching back to press a finger against his abused entrance, pulling his hand away quickly as Moth joined him, water sloshing over the sides.

“Is there anything I should know about Khajiit grooming habits?” he asked somewhat gruffly. Azarahd chuckled, pushing to the opposite side of the tub to face him.

“Only that it takes a while to dry off.” He held his hand out expectantly as Moth grabbed the soap.

The orc looked slightly bashful. “May I…?” He gestured vaguely in Azarahd’s direction with the bar in his hand. Ahz couldn’t help the way his ears perked up in surprise, eyes widening.

“Ehm… sure…” Despite the nervousness of his reply, he turned his back to Moth and moved slightly closer. The orc ran one of his large, warm hands gently across Azarahd’s shoulders, the one holding the bar of soap trailing in its wake. He slowly, meticulously began to work up a soapy lather into his fur, moving up Ahz’s neck  and across his back. Ahz groaned appreciatively as Moth thoroughly rinsed the soap off, kneading the tightly wound muscles as he did, finding aches and pains Azarahd didn’t even know he had. His head tipped forward, whiskers brushing the water as Moth continued his massage. He felt lighter already.

 

“You really are terrible at casual encounters.” Ahz laughed lowly. “You’re making me want to marry you.”

“Something tells me you're not the settling down type,” Moth chuckled in response, lifting one of Azarahd’s arms out of the water as he continued his attentions.

“You would be correct,” he confirmed. “Though I don’t see an amulet of Mara hanging around your neck either.”

“I have no time for the kind of attention that would draw.” Moth shrugged, as though it were obvious. He moved to washing Ahz’s hand, sliding between each finger with careful diligence.

“I feel like you’ve done this before,” Azarahd commented.

“What, bathed?” Moth retorted with a snort.

“Yes, you’re _quite_ _clean for an orc_ ,” Azarahd teased with an easy laugh. “No, I mean bathed someone else.”

Moth hummed thoughtfully. “Not in a long time. But it’s something that I enjoy,” he agreed, letting Azarahd’s arm fall back into the water, moving on to the next. The Khajiit purred despite himself, falling back against Moth’s chest. He lay silently against the mer, letting him simply run his hands across his body, now incredibly grateful that he agreed to a bath. The heat and the contact had him soon feeling drunk on sensation, sex stirring to the forefront of his mind once more.

 

“Lower,” he growled as Moth’s hand pressed against his abdomen. The orc huffed into his ear, pulling Azarahd closer with one arm as the other trailed down to his dick, fully erect beneath the water.

“You don’t tire easily, do you?” he asked, voice low, stroking Azarahd’s length lazily, causing the Khajiit to arch against him with a groan.

“It’s one of my many talents,” he managed, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against Moth’s shoulder. The mer planted firm kisses along Ahz’s neck, growling in appreciation, free hand splayed across his chest.

“This is what I wanted,” Moth confessed as Azarahd thrust up into his fist. “To see you like this.” He scraped a tusk against Azarahd’s jaw.

“You…” Ahz stuttered for a moment. “You should have just asked.” He reached his arms up out of the water, fur heavy and waterlogged, bracketing Moth’s head, fingers scrambling against the side of the tub as he pressed fully back into him.

“Does it…” Azarahd gasped as Moth’s other hand trailed up to his neck, not constricting his breathing, but simply holding him in place.

“Does it make you feel powerful?” he managed to ask. “To have the Dragonborn under your control like this?”

Moth growled, deep and guttural in his ear. He could feel the orc’s length pressing into his low back, thick and hard.

“I want you to come for me again,” Moth demanded, quickening his pace.

Azarahd smiled lecherously, gripping the edge of the tub tightly. “With… pleasure…” he sighed, his hips moving in tandem with Moth’s thrusts.

 

It didn’t take him long. The water didn’t help, but it didn’t hamper the sensation either. Azarahd was bucking into Moth’s fist, water slapping against the sides of the tub. He felt his second orgasm curling hot in his gut, like a coiled snake poised to rear its head. He panted heavily into the steamy air, water sloshing about them as his whole body reacted to the treatment. Finally, tortuously, he found his second release, coming hard into Moth’s fist beneath the water.

 

Moth was trailing kisses along the side of his face, seemingly content as Azarahd panted and came back into his own body.

“Stay with me,” he murmured into Ahz’s ear. The Khajiit could only nod dumbly, still reeling from his climax. Maybe it was the heat, maybe he really was just that lonely, but the idea of sleeping anywhere but next to Moth that night seemed an utter impossibility.

 

-

 

Moth didn’t mention that he shared his quarters with his sister and her incompetent apprentice. Azarahd climbed awkwardly into the small bed as the other inhabitants of the room slept soundly, one of them snoring softly. Moth climbed in after him, wrapping an arm around him almost protectively, kissing his shoulder lazily as he drifted off. The back of Azarahd’s neck was still damp despite the vigorous toweling off he gave himself, and he felt more than a little trapped - between a rock and a hard place, a warm body and a city made of stone. He lay awake long after he felt Moth’s breathing even out behind him, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. They’d finish up the final bits of detailing for his armor in the morning, and then he would leave. He would leave in the morning. He would leave. He _wanted_ to leave.

 

He had to.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ayyee... I love putting my characters through the emotional wringer. 
> 
> Two more shoutouts to stories that definitely inspired this one.  
> The first being [Curved Swords](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17500832) by RunTheJewels - Moth is a good boi and Felwinter is EVERYTHING TO ME.  
> The second being the incredibly steamy [Raw Talent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6299203) by FourCatProductions - that bath scene just made me go "hey I want in on that fun... (〜￣△￣)〜". Also, HELLA good smut. 
> 
> MORE ORC LOVE. Stay sexy, you animals.


End file.
